


Fear of Falling

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Breathplay, Bruises, Catholic Character, Catholic Guilt, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Female Characters, Femdom, Het, Kinky, Pegging, Porn, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Spanking, Strangulation, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Runners are a crazy lot. It takes a certain kind of personality to face death that way. Sometimes they just need a little release. Written for Iron Zombies: After Dark in September 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear of Falling

The tips of Sara’s fingers are cold where they press into his hips, a grip that is undoubtedly hard enough to leave bruises. She rocks her hips, twists in a way that sends the toy deeper into him, dragging a guttural groan out of his lips. And Sara laughs.

“Enjoying yourself there, Three?” she says, and how can she sound so calm, so composed when he’s down here on his knees sucking in breath like a drowning man.

She punctuates her words with a particularly hard thrust that rocks him forward and makes him cry out. He drops his head, trying to brace himself again or he’s going to end up being fucked into the mattress and he’s not sure that his ego could take it.

She wraps her hand around his cock and he isn’t sure that he cares.

“You’re sounding a little breathless there,” Sara says and she slows down just enough to let him breathe, the muscles in his stomach jumping.

“What do you expect?” he snaps, turning his head enough so that he can just see her out of the corner of his eye. “Christ Eight, you’re like a machine.”

“And here I thought you had stamina. You’re always talking about it, going out on those extra long runs. Your yoga. Don’t tell me you’ll be sore tomorrow too.”

She leans over him, putting enough weight onto his back to make his arms buckle and sending him face first onto the mattress. He can’t even complain because her hand around his dick, teasing the slit slick with pre-come, feels _amazing_.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he groans, and arches back against her, the muscles in his thighs straining.

The slap against his arse sends bright sparks through his brain, makes his face heat with shame at how fucking good it feels. “Blasphemy, Three? I thought you were a god fearing man.”

He bares his teeth. She can’t see it, but she can probably hear it in his voice. “We’re not _married_ , Eight. Pretty sure that’s up there when it comes to sin.”

He’s probably imagining that her fingers tighten on his hips. He definitely doesn’t imagine it when she tangles her fingers into his sweaty hair and drags him up, forces his head back. There’s a moment when their eyes meet, his dazed and hers sharp as ever, some weird understanding passing between them, and then their lips meet in a rough kiss that feels like she’s trying to taste him down to the core of his bitter, blackened soul. It leaves his lips swollen, his breath laboured and he swears he tastes blood, sharp copper on his tongue.

She releases his hair and the lack of pressure is just as painful as when she’d been tugging on it. Her hands rest against his shoulders, the back of his neck and she rocks hard inside him. Her touch lingers against his Adam’s apple and that’s all the warning he gets before her hands are wrapped around his throat, squeezing, enough to tease, then to hurt and then to make him gasp for breath which doesn’t come. His eyes go wide, fingers fisting into the sheets as he gasps and gasps and gets nothing. He can feel the hot and heavy pulse of his blood like a drum in his ears, the beat through his veins and in his face and the darkness creeping in behind his eyes and the screams of the damned and the heat of hell and…

He screams as he comes, or he thinks he does, a strangled noise of pleasure and terror and he’s never come so hard in his life.

All he can do is pant and gasp as Sara keeps moving, rocking against him until he feels her shudder and groan. She rests against him for a moment, sweat-slick skin sliding against his. He can barely do more than groan when she withdraws, a brief sting and a deeper ache left behind.

“Come on Three, lets have you.”

He lets her rolls him over to lie on his back, and she eases out his body, stretches taut muscles. She’s efficient, but her hands are gentle and they linger a little over the places on his throat where she’d squeezed.

“I’ve never seen anyone react as hard to that,” she says, and there’s curiosity mingled with her concern.

He manages a strained laugh. “You did try to strangle me.”

“I suppose I did. Which begs the question of what you were getting off to; the pleasure or the fear.”

He goes still for a moment and then shrugs, dragging the pillow down to cradle it close and hide his face. He doesn’t answer and Sara’s hands linger against his neck. He thinks there’ll be bruises there too.

She lies down next to him after a few moments, her body lithe and strong next to his. He’s not sure how she’s not as overheated as him, but he doesn’t press any closer to warm her up either. One of them’ll be gone as soon as they’ve caught their breath anyway. Another run, another risk.

The pleasure and the fear.


End file.
